


Playthings

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Injury, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson hopes for distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playthings

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Whumpage, random historical trivia, and no plot in sight. **And absolutely no beta.** This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.
> 
>  
> 
> Written for JWP #2: From A to Z: Use at least two of the following words: abdicate, automaton, allele, Zarathustra, zither.

  
  
I glanced up from the pages of my book to look at Holmes. He sat sunk in his usual chair, his newspapers spread all about him, and looked deeply absorbed in a particular set of agony-pages. It was as good an opportunity as I was likely to see. I raised my novel in my right hand a few inches while I surreptitiously brought my left hand towards my side.  
  
"Watson." Holmes spoke my name warningly without glancing up from the newsprint.  
  
Piqued beyond reason, I dropped my novel to the floor. "Confound it, Holmes!"  
  
My friend did look up at that. His lean features showed a blend of amusement and concern. "Anstruther told us both that you must leave the strappings alone, dear fellow. And you agreed with him. You even told me to not let you adjust them, no matter what you said later on." Amusement faded, leaving nothing behind but tempered worry. "Do you need another dose?"  
  
I shook my head. Holmes knew how I disliked the medicine, however necessary it might be. "If I take another dose, I'll sleep away yet another afternoon."  
  
"Your ribs need time to heal."  
  
"If I spend another afternoon asleep on this sofa, I'll be too stiff and weak to move once they do," I grumbled, only half-joking. I ached all over, from prolonged inactivity as much as other causes. I shifted irritably, only to stifle a gasp as sharp pain stabbed my side.  
  
Holmes abdicated his place by the fire and was next to me before I could catch my breath. He said nothing, only helped me sit slightly more upright and then held me steady until the worst of the pain passed. When I looked at his face, I saw that his lips were pressed together in a firm line. "It's all right, Holmes," I tried to reassure him. "Just a twinge."  
  
He shook his head, but remained silent.  
  
The adolescent thunder of Billy's boot-heels on the stairs broke the quiet before it became awkward. He knocked on the sitting-room door, then shouted his news before Holmes could open it. "Mr. Holmes, there's a package for you! A large one!" The solid wood did nothing to muffle the excitement in the boy's voice, tinged with just a bit of apprehension. He knew as well as any of us that not all of Holmes' packages could be considered safe.  
  
"I'll be right there, Billy." Holmes retrieved my book from the floor and gave it to me along with a stern look. "I expect to find you in exactly the same place here on the sofa upon my return, Watson."  
  
I resisted the urge to say something petulant or childish, but once he was out of the room, I let the smile I'd mustered fall away from my lips, and only barely restrained the urge to curse. Broken ribs were the very devil. I knew it as a doctor who had treated victims of both accident and foul-play, but I knew it even better now. There was no way to be comfortable, no safe way to bind them securely enough to allow for anything but the most cautious movements. No real way to treat them, beyond rest and hoping for the best. I knew this, and yet was sick to death of resting quietly all the same. It was as much Holmes' vigilance as my own questionable good sense (not to mention constant reminders of the greater pain that awaited imprudence) that had kept me as quiet as I had been.  
  
It could have been much, much worse. I kept reminding myself of that in the privacy of my own thoughts. I would never say the words aloud, not least because I had no wish to remind Holmes of how close a call we'd had. At least he had escaped nearly unscathed, thankfully.  
  
A thump and subsequent scraping sound on the stairwell brought me out of my dark thoughts. Holmes reappeared in the doorway, carrying one end of a considerably-sized crate. Billy followed, bearing up his end. "Good heavens, Holmes, what is it?"  
  
"A gift from our Parisian clients," Holmes replied, setting his side down on the carpet between the chairs and the sofa I reclined upon, regardless of his newspapers. "Thank you Billy, that will be all for now. I'll call you again in a while, I promise."  
  
Holmes lifted the already-loosened lid as the boy left more reluctantly than usual. My friend had clearly done a preliminary inspection while below stairs with Billy, but all I could see was a quantity of wrappings. "What is it?" I asked again, almost forgetting my injuries in my curiosity.  
  
"I should think it obvious." Holmes favored me with an impatient look before returning his attention to carefully freeing the contents of the crate from its protective cloths. "After all, you visibly admired their work when we were investigating the smaller workshop."  
  
"Oh!" Memory of that amazing, cramped space in Paris reawakened, followed quickly by disbelief. "No, really?"  
  
"It seems so." Holmes lifted away a fine bit of silken cloth that had been beneath the layers of felt and coarse wool, and then his lips pursed in a silent whistle. "By Jove, Watson. I saw enough downstairs to know what it was, but I was more preoccupied with ensuring that the works were nothing dangerous. I hadn't realized the extent of the decoration."  
  
It took both strength and delicacy to lift the automaton safely, but my friend has both qualities in abundance. The rich wood of the box base gleamed in the gaslight, a perfect mimicry of a polished dance floor in miniature scale. The machine included not one exquisite, lifelike figure on its shining surface, but two: a richly-dressed lady, standing with a flute held in one hand, and an equally well-dressed gentleman, seated, with a strange stringed instrument upon his lap.  
  
Holmes stared at the instrument for a long moment before his lips curved upwards in a knowing smile. “Ah, this must play Strauss,” he murmured.  
  
I stared in astonishment. “How on earth do you know that? Is it marked underneath? Or was it one of the ones there?” I did not remember this particular machine, and I rather thought I would have noticed it, but Holmes is a far keener observer than I.  
  
Holmes produced a key from beneath the base and began to wind the mechanism. “No, I have not seen this before. But there are not many popular pieces in the repertoire that call for a zither, and of those few...”  
  
The lady figurine raised her head, blinked, and brought her flute to her lips. The gentleman turned his face to watch her gravely as a lovely trill sounded. A simple, birdlike melody played, and then the gentleman started plucking out the lilting measures of a familiar-sounding waltz.  
Holmes nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, Strauss.”  
  
It was magical. I knew it was a machine, but I could not look away from the tiny musicians as they performed. How clockwork and gears could create such a living, breathing performance – it was a mystery as great as any I had witnessed in my years in accompanying Holmes on cases.  
  
Eventually the piece ended. The musicians returned to their original positions, and Holmes stopped the mechanism before it began again. After a moment, I found my voice. “It’s beautiful.”  
  
“A plaything of kings,” Holmes noted, the softness of his tone contrasting with the clinical, almost dismissive nature of his words. An ironic half-smile tilted his lips, and all traces of sentiment vanished behind his usual cool, ironic mask. “Which is a far better use for our clients’ talents than other, more deadly mechanisms, wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
“Absolutely.” Briefly, the memory of the horrible, destructive devices we’d discovered in a disused London mews, and the twisted man behind them, overlaid the lovely view of the frozen automata. I blinked, and deliberately focused on what was in front of me, rather than what had nearly been. “It does raise one question, however.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes.” I eyed the box, the figures, the crate, and the wrappings, now scattered all over the room. All in all, the mess took up what looked like nearly half the sitting-room. “Whatever are we going to _do_ with it?”  
  
Holmes blinked, surprised, and then let out one of his singular barks of laughter. “My dear fellow, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 2, 2013


End file.
